


What Tomorrow Will Bring

by addicted2hugh



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: And some more Hurt, Angst, Bottom John Watson, Domestic Violence, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Insecure John Watson, Internalized Homophobia, John is a Bit Not Good, John is a Mess, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, POV Third Person, Past Abuse, Post-Canon, Sherlock is Not a Virgin, Smut, Top Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-23
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:00:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22373749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/addicted2hugh/pseuds/addicted2hugh
Summary: How do I describe this?Angsty toplock smut set after S4?When his father dies, John needs comfort of a sort only Sherlock can give. Will it bring them back together again after everything they went through?
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 31
Kudos: 340
Collections: Quickrecs





	What Tomorrow Will Bring

**Author's Note:**

> This is set after S4. Sherlock and John haven't lost touch completely and occasionally work on cases together, but things are not what they used to be.  
> When I started writing this, all I wanted was some rain-soaked smut, but then I thought of all those fics where a virgin Sherlock is seduced by an experienced John, my own included, and decided to turn it all around. And from then on it wrote itself.
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy!

When John comes back, it's raining.

It has been going on for days, coming down in torrents that seem to never want to end, and Sherlock finds him hovering near the front door of 221B, drenched to the bone, his shoulders hunched and his face pale, so pale.

"John," he addresses him softly, and he can tell that the other man has seen him, recognised him too, but when John raises his head and looks at him, his eyes are glassy and dazed.

"Hey," John replies in what's barely a whisper - Sherlock has to strain his ears to make out the words amidst the pattering of the rain hitting the pavement.

"Come inside," he tells him. "You're freezing."

John stares at him, and all of a sudden, he looks scared.

"Are you--- sure?" he rasps.

Sherlock shakes his head in disbelief. Does John think he'll send him away in the state he's in? They might not exactly be friends anymore, not after everything that happened, after everything they did to each other, but he doesn’t wish John any harm. He couldn’t hate him, even if he tried, and he knows that because he did try, at first. He tried so hard. 

"Don't be stupid now. Do you want to end up with pneumonia? Come on in." 

He unlocks the door and holds it open for John, who, after a brief moment of hesitation, steps over the threshold and into the hall, his head down, as if he was afraid of looking at him.

"Thank you," John murmurs. "You were--- about to go out. I didn't mean to---"

"Never mind," Sherlock interrupts him. "It wasn’t urgent."

He lets his gaze roam over the angles of John’s back, for a moment allowing himself to bask in the warmth of recognising the way he moves, so familiar, then looks up again to study his profile, noticing the stubble on his haggard face and the grey streaks in his hair that weren’t there the last time they saw each other, which feels like a lifetime ago somehow. 

"Come upstairs," he says, stating the obvious for lack of anything better to say.

John nods.

\---

"I’ll get you some dry clothes. You can change in the bathroom."

"O-okay."

John’s teeth are already clattering. Sherlock feels pity tug at his heart, pity and something else he doesn’t want to think about because it hurts too much.

"I’ll light a fire for you to warm up. And a cup of tea?"

"Yes," John answers, still in that hushed voice that’s so unlike him. "Thank you, Sherlock."

Hearing his name fall from John’s lips is almost too much, too intense, so Sherlock jerks himself out of it and makes his way to the bedroom to look for some clean clothes. Then the fire, and then tea, he reminds himself. Keep busy. 

Don’t give in to it.

\---

John looks forlorn in Sherlock’s faded light-blue T-shirt (the least tattered one he could find), but it brings out the colour of his eyes in a way that causes Sherlock’s stomach to flutter and clench. He’s also given him an old pair of jeans, which he had to roll up so as not to trip, his thickest dressing gown, some socks, and, of course, a pair of pants. The thought of his clothes on John’s body, of soft, worn-out fabric rubbing against warm, golden skin, drives him insane, but he tries to block it out. 

"Here's your tea," he states, pointlessly, as he hands John his mug, and as John looks up at him from out of his armchair, his cheeks red from sitting so close to the fire, the place almost feels like home again. 

"Thank you." John turns his head away again and takes a sip. "That's good," he then adds quietly. "Really--- thank you, Sherlock." 

Sherlock sits down in his own chair. 

"What happened, John?" 

There's no use beating around the bush, after all. 

John shrugs. 

"My father died this morning." 

He presses his lips together, not looking at Sherlock, but into his mug, a strange, tense smile playing around his mouth. 

Sherlock is not sure what he's supposed to do. He's never been good at offering comfort and support, especially not in matters of, well, life and death. He doesn't have it in him. And now John has lost another person close to him, as if everything he's been going through lately hadn't been enough. 

"I'm sorry, John."

John snorts, sounding exasperated. Sherlock bites the inside of his cheek. 

Wrong, then. As expected. 

"I can't imagine how you must feel, John," he tries again. "I'm sorry. I'm not good at this, as you know. I wish I knew what to say." 

John's face twists into an expression that looks like a mixture of agony and amusement and thus overtaxes Sherlock's ability to deduce his mood, so he waits for further clues. 

"What I feel?" John eventually asks, as if talking to himself. "What I _feel_ , you wonder?" He raises his head, and Sherlock suppresses the urge to flinch. It hurts to look at John like this, even if he can't explain how or why. "I'm _happy_ ," John then says.

And then he laughs. 

"John---" Sherlock starts, but doesn't get any further, because John buries his face in his hands and giggles hysterically, and then the giggling turns into deep, laboured breathing, and then into stifled sobs. 

It happens so fast that Sherlock finds himself by his side before even realising that he's moved, and, following a spontaneous impulse, he sits down on the armrest of John's chair and lays his hand on his shoulder to put gentle pressure on it and show him that he's there. 

"Sshhh," he says lowly. "It's okay." 

John shivers and leans against his thigh, and Sherlock rubs his upper back in what he hopes is a calming fashion, all the while trying not to think back to the last time they were touching like this, or almost like this, because he knows it would evoke feelings of being misunderstood and abandoned that he can't deal with right now. Or ever. 

"It's not okay," John mutters, and Sherlock shakes his head against the memories, but then forgets everything around himself when John twists in his chair and slings his arms around his hips. 

What---

John's head is in his lap now. John's _face_ is _between his legs_. And he's breathing him in, deeply and slowly, and the push and pull of burning air against his crotch makes him grow hard so fast that it leaves him feeling dizzy. 

No. What is John doing?

"John," he croaks. "Stop." 

John moans against him and he can't help but mirror the sound with one of his own because the vibrations of his voice are the best thing he's ever felt, but still, this is _wrong_. He can't let this go any further.

" _John_ ," he repeats and makes to push him away, but John holds onto him with a surprisingly tight grip and _licks_ along the seam of his fly, pressing down on the outline of his erection, which is straining against the tight fabric of his black Armani trousers. 

_Oh---_

_God!_

"Please," John sighs. "Please." 

Sherlock watches him and wonders if he's hallucinating all of this.

This can't be happening, John reaching out and pulling down his zipper, fumbling with the hook and button next, then slipping two fingers into his boxers to pull him out. _This can't be happening._ He's wanted this for so long, but John is not like that, not interested in men, in _him_ , he's always said so, in no uncertain terms---

"Come," John whispers and pulls at him to give himself better access, and Sherlock steadies himself against the backrest of the chair to keep his balance, and then he's in John's mouth, surrounded by slick, tight heat, and his mind goes blank. 

John's tongue rubs up and down that perfect spot beneath his tip, agonisingly slowly, and then he hollows his cheeks and sucks hard. 

"Oh God," Sherlock hears himself whisper. "John." 

John hums and lifts his head again to look up. The crackling fire throws flickering shadows across the room, making his hair look like a golden halo surrounding his face. Gently, he lets him slip from his mouth. There are streaks of moisture glistening on his cheeks. 

"I need you," he murmurs against the wet flesh still pulsing against his lips. "Say you want this. Please." 

Sherlock takes a few breaths to calm himself enough to answer. The surreal quality of seeing John like this, with his hand around the base of his cock and his lips shining with saliva, makes his head swim. 

Of course he wants this. It's all he's wanted ever since that very first day. He thought things between them were broken beyond repair, but now he's not so sure anymore. The question is, _will_ they be if they continue this, whatever this is? 

"Why now?" he asks. 

John sighs and gets up to step between his legs. Their faces are almost level right now. 

"I don't know," he rumbles. "I don't know what's happening, Sherlock. I've never done this before, with--- another man."

He lifts his arms and puts them around Sherlock's shoulders, hesitating before closing the distance between them completely. His scent is a blend of sweat, petrichor, and Mrs Hudson's washing powder, and Sherlock wants to drown in it and never come to the surface again. John gazes at him through the half-light and smiles shyly. 

"Can I kiss you?" he breathes. 

Sherlock can't help himself. He laughs. 

"You took my penis into your mouth even though I told you not to - and _now_ you're asking?" 

John huffs. Then he shrugs, his hand sliding behind Sherlock's head to push a curl behind his ear. Sherlock feels like he should say something more, ask John what will happen tomorrow, next week, next month, but he's speechless and weak and just wants to give in to it all and go along with whatever it is that John wants to do. 

It was so much easier to just live in the moment before he got clean. 

"I'll kiss you now," John announces, the barest hint of insecurity in his voice. 

Sherlock doesn't stop him. 

When their lips meet, it's sweeter than anything has ever been before. It's slow and languid, the way their tongues slide against each other, the way their breath mingles, and when John takes Sherlock's bottom lip between his teeth and pulls a little, Sherlock's knees buckle even while sitting down. John moans and deepens the kiss, licking into his mouth again and again, his hips pressing into their embrace, the fabric of his jeans chafing against the sensitive skin of Sherlock's bare cock. 

The ensuing jolt of pleasure-pain causes Sherlock to gasp and throw back his head, and John, looking punch-drunk, traces his cheekbones with his thumbs. 

" _Sherlock_ …" he pants. "Okay?" 

Sherlock tries to gather his wits, but fails miserably. 

"You--- it's… good," he answers and wants the floor to swallow him whole, but John grins. 

"Yeah… I've been told that I'm not too bad at it," he whispers, and for this single moment, the old John is back. 

"They weren't lying," is all that Sherlock can think to reply, and then John pounces, attacking his neck with his lips and his tongue, and his hands are still in his hair, his nails raking along his scalp, and he melts into it and lets himself go. 

They're doing this now, and it's alright. 

"I want to kiss you all over," John mutters into their connection. "Please… let me."

\---

"I loved wearing this," John says lowly as Sherlock pulls his T-shirt off his body and drops it to the floor, where it joins the dressing gown already pooling at his feet. "It smells of you…" 

Sherlock smiles. The muted light of his bedside lamp is bathing John in its warm glow, and the white noise of the rain still falling outside makes him feel calm and disconnected from the rest of the world, safely shut up in the cocoon of this flat, where it's only John and him tonight. 

"It did have a certain effect on me, too," he admits softly. 

John nods, his fingers making slow progress down the button row of Sherlock's shirt. 

"I missed you," he murmurs, placing a kiss onto Sherlock's sternum, lingering there before moving to his left nipple to lave it with his tongue. "I know I have no right saying that, but it's the truth." He kisses the place where Mary's bullet entered him, ever so gently, giving Sherlock goosebumps all over. "I missed you like crazy." 

His words are fluttering against damp, over-sensitive skin and Sherlock's heart beats faster. He still doesn't know what all of this is about, what John wants for the future, but the way they're talking now gives him hope that it might be more than just a one-night thing caused by grief and self-loathing. He is aware of the fact that their relationship is messed up, has been ever since he got back from Serbia, and that adding sex to the equation is unlikely to make things easier. But maybe, just maybe, this is not only about sex. And that is why he decides to be brave and open up, regardless of what it might cost. 

"I missed you too."

He helps John to open his cuffs and then shrugs off his shirt. John stops moving for a moment and takes him in, which makes him feel self-conscious. He's got nothing to be ashamed of, he knows, but he's not keen on revealing his scars just yet, mostly because he's sure it would kill the mood to explain how he got them.

To distract himself, and maybe John as well, he reaches down and opens John's - _his_ \- jeans to push them over his hips and down his legs, enjoying the sensation of his knuckles brushing against soft skin and downy hair, and then he gets down on his knees in front of him to help him step out of them and slip off his socks. 

"Oh God, Sherlock," John says randomly as he lifts his feet one after the other, and Sherlock notices that his chest has begun to rise and fall slightly faster than before. Sherlock thinks that what he actually means to ask is: "What the hell are we doing?"

He looks up. 

"You can change your mind," he tells him, his palms resting on the backs of his thighs. "We can stop." 

John bites the insides of his cheeks and shakes his head. 

"No, I--- no. I don't want to stop." 

Sherlock shuffles forwards a little and puts his face right against the trail of silver-blond curls leading from John's navel down to his crotch. He smells different here, like clean skin and musk, and his muscles are rippling against his lips, betraying his excitement. He can't deny that it arouses him to be John's first man - to have Captain "Three Continents" Watson here in his bedroom, naked and trembling and all his to seduce. 

"Okay," he breathes and then scatters a line of open-mouthed kisses along the waistband of his own boxers on John's body, ending with a gentle nip at his hip. His fingers knot into the expensive silk bunching up under his palms as he massages John's buttocks, learns how well they fit into his hands.

"Mmhhh," John hums. 

He is breathtaking; every inch of him is _perfect_ , Sherlock thinks, from the arches of his feet to the wayward silver strands falling into his eyes as he gently threads his fingers through his hair and stares at him from under heavy lids. 

His stomach is not completely flat, but covering the layer of strong, solid muscle that still tells of his military past there's a soft padding of fat that he wants to bury his face in and kiss, and suck, and bite. His bullet scar is a huge, hideous thing, but all it implies to Sherlock is that it brought him to him, all those years ago, and although he wishes he could have spared him the pain, he can't imagine a life without John Watson in it, no matter their past. 

"You're beautiful," he whispers. 

John blushes. 

Sherlock can tell that he's very nervous, his straight-forward way of initiating things notwithstanding, but even through his boxers it's apparent that his cock is standing proud, and thick, demanding attention, and it's all so different from seeing him step out of the shower or walk around in his underwear when they still used to live with each other, because now it's for him, all for him, to see and touch and explore, and he's determined to savour every second of this.

Who knows if he'll ever get the chance again. 

John's hands tighten their grip on his head when he pulls at the boxers until his erection springs free, and Sherlock doesn't waste another second before licking a broad stripe up his shaft, ending with a soft swirl of his tongue around the tip, gathering the drop of wetness there to sample him for the first time. 

(Bitter. Salty. _John._ )

" _Fuck_ ," John curses.

His legs are quivering. Sherlock smiles as a surge of possessive power floods his insides, and he wants to see how far he has to go to make John lose control. 

"You taste so good," he rasps, lowering his voice to a deep, husky drawl. "I want more…"

"Nngghh," John garbles and bucks against his face. 

_Voice. Noted._

He takes him in, not taking his gaze off John's as he goes down deep, and the eye contact feels even more intimate than having him inside his mouth. 

"Yes, yes, _yes_ …" John whispers, his cheeks aflame. "Oh God…" 

Sherlock groans lasciviously and bobs his head a few times, making the view enticing - he knows what he looks like going down on someone, has been praised for it before, and _never_ has it been more important to him to please his partner than now. 

John bites his lip, hard, and another streak of Cowper's fluid hits Sherlock palate. Sherlock is impressed that he still manages to keep his eyes open and fixed on him - he seems so far gone already. 

"Hhrrrmmmm…" he purrs and pulls away slowly. He'll draw this out, for _hours_ if he gets his way. 

John blinks stupidly when he lets him go and almost stumbles when Sherlock pushes at his hips to turn him around, his reaction time slow, his movements clumsy. It's exhilarating to be the reason for that, Sherlock muses, and then John's arse is right in front of him, two adorable dimples above it, and he leans in and kisses them before licking his way into the cleft between John's buttocks. 

John cries out in surprise. 

Sherlock reaches around him with one hand to rest his bollocks in his palm, just because he can, and is astonished to find them already full and drawn up tight against his body. 

"Gorgeous," he murmurs and bites down on the taut flesh on display, and then he uses his free hand to spread John open for his eyes and mouth to roam. "If you need me to stop, say so and I will," he says lowly. "It's okay." 

John whimpers and nods. 

But he doesn't tell him to stop. 

Sherlock is amazed. 

He places a few small, tender kisses around John's opening, feeling sparse hair and silky skin, and then flicks the little puckered ring with the tip of his tongue, simultaneously squeezing his bollocks in a gentle grasp. 

" _Oh_ -hoh," John gasps, and it sounds like a small sob. 

Emboldened by this, Sherlock does it again, and a third time, and then kisses John's arse as if it was his mouth - long, wet, deep strokes of his tongue that make his nerves sing with pleasure and John's body vibrate with sensation. It goes on and on, with him losing track of time, and there's nothing else that matters now but this. He can feel John twitching and pulsing into his touch, softening, opening for him, and for a frantic moment all he wants is to bend him over and bury himself in him again and again and _again_ until they both can't breathe, or speak, or move. 

"Stop… " John eventually sighs and saves him from losing himself in his fantasies. "I'll finish if--- if you don't stop…" 

Sherlock bids him a lazy, thorough farewell, sucking at him one last time before letting go, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. 

John turns towards him again and chuckles weakly. 

"Sherlock… I'm afraid I'll need to lie down. That was---" 

He breaks off, looking embarrassed. There don't seem to be any words for what he wants to say. Sherlock grins up at him. 

"I'll take that as a compliment," he jokes to lighten the mood. 

John exhales through his nose, loudly, and nods. 

"Yeah," he replies. 

Sherlock gestures towards his bed. 

"Feel free. I'll join you in a moment." 

John walks over to the bed on shaky legs and lies down on his side to watch Sherlock shed the rest of his clothes. Sherlock knows he's seen the scars, but he doesn't ask, and he's thankful for that. It's almost palpable, the way John's eyes follow his every move, and he feels the atmosphere change into something calmer and more reverent than before. All of this means _something_ , even though he has no idea what it is. He wonders if John knows. 

When he's naked as well, he lies down beside John, who just keeps looking at him quietly, and because he doesn't have the words to tell him what this means to him, he simply leans in and kisses him again.

John kisses back, slowly at first, but then gradually coming alive next to him, grabbing his upper arm and digging his thumb into his biceps, making tight circles, his mouth open and panting and hot, demanding, _overwhelming_. 

He is indeed a fantastic kisser. 

Their difference in height makes it impossible to grind against each other the way Sherlock wants to, so he takes hold of John's thigh and pulls until he can feel the shorter man's arousal throb against his stomach, and it's so good. He's rock-hard and silky as he glides against Sherlock's skin, and then John moans and lifts his leg across Sherlock's hip to give himself leverage, which allows Sherlock's cock to slip between his thighs and slide against his arse, and that is good, too. Very good. 

They kiss and kiss, and Sherlock almost forgets to breathe while trying to memorise the sweet taste of John's tongue in his mouth. 

_Delicious._

"Fuck me," John suddenly groans into the damp space between their faces, and Sherlock's heart stops.

_Oh God._

"I mean it, Sherlock," John says and nips at his upper lip. "I want you to. You've--- done this before… haven't you?" 

Sherlock nods. His nose bumps against John's. He feels stunned, stupid, and slow, and at the same time finds himself lost and completely confused, his head going into overdrive trying to process what John wants, or thinks he does. 

John reaches down and gropes around until he can wrap his fingers around Sherlock's hardness, which, despite his reeling, stuttering mind, makes it known that it is interested, very much so, by twitching into his gentle grip right away. 

"I'm scared. But I want it, and I want it to be you. If--- if you want to, that is. Only if you want to." John licks his lips again and kisses him once more, very softly, and then rubs their cheeks together in an unmistakable gesture of affection. "Do you?" he breathes. 

Sherlock moves into the contact, not ready to meet John's eyes yet, and nods. 

"Yes," he whispers. 

God, does he ever want to. Always has. Always will. 

John smiles a little. 

"Good." 

Sherlock feels tears prick at the corners of his eyes, but doesn't allow them to come. He wants to tell John how he's been dreaming of having him like this forever, even after the worst day, how he's always wished he hadn't brushed him off that night at Angelo's, how he thinks he should have told him that yes, men, _boyfriends_ , definitely _are_ his area, even though not many have managed to spark his interest, let alone any feelings of a more serious kind, how he used to lie awake at night afterwards and beat himself up over missing his chance before giving in to his desire and touching himself fantasising about it being John's hands on his body instead of his own. 

But revealing all that would be too much, surely, would probably scare him away, and he can't jeopardise this now, not when John is here in his bed, begging to be taken. 

He thinks of the last time he did this, years and years ago, and hopes his body still remembers, because his brain is shutting down in anticipation of what's to come, and he really can't blame it. 

He reaches behind himself and fumbles for the drawer of his bedside table and the bottle of lubricant hidden away in it, and then he finds it, his fingers closing around cold plastic, and everything seems much more real all of a sudden. 

John puts his face into the slope of his neck, breathing deeply, as he slicks up his right hand. Sherlock wonders if it's all too much - too much input, too much sensation - for him as well. 

He clicks the bottle shut and drops it onto the bed. 

John hums at the sound and looks up. His eyes have turned a deep, dark shade of blue. 

They kiss again, only briefly, but with an infinite tenderness that by now seems to come naturally to both of them. Sherlock revels in it even as his body screams at him to get on with it. He's never wanted anyone this much in all his life. 

"Are you sure this is okay?" Sherlock whispers while his fingers are already slipping between the other man's cheeks out of their own accord, searching, caressing, and John just keeps looking at him and nods and whispers back, right against his lips, making him shiver in response: "Do it." 

_Do it._

Sherlock swallows and puts their foreheads together and lets his hand wander and probe, slicking that soft cleft between John's buttocks until everything's hot and slippery and there's nowhere else left to go but _in_ , and so he does, eventually, with as much gentleness as he can muster in his state, and John tenses for a second and then lets go, lets him in, so _warm_ , and he slides inside deeply, right up to his knuckle, and stops, and waits, and tries not to cry with relief at finally being allowed to do this. 

" _Fuck_ ," John groans, and Sherlock can feel him speak from within.

"Are you okay?" he asks him, kissing his cheek, his closed lids, the deep furrow between his brows. 

"Give me--- a moment," John replies breathlessly, sounding focused rather than pained. "Just… a moment." 

"Whatever you need," Sherlock tells him, and feels the corner of John's mouth twitch in a small smile as he kisses him there as well. 

They lie motionless for a minute or two, breathing together, and then John experimentally flexes his hips to push himself against Sherlock's hand. 

"Oh God, yes," he says throatily. "Keep going." 

Sherlock bites his earlobe and pulls away to start a careful rhythm of in and out to make John loosen up more, and when he deems him relaxed enough, he crooks his finger and strokes along his prostate to see what it will do to him. 

John jerks in his arms. 

"Fu--- _fuck_ ," he presses out. "Again." 

So Sherlock does it again. And again. 

Soon he can add another finger, which obviously makes the feeling better still, judging from the way John urges him on with wanton moans and the erratic bucking of his hips, and he thrusts deeply and massages that sweet spot inside of him with the quick, circular motions that he himself likes best. 

He can't believe John is letting him do this. It's like his dreams used to be, but so much better. 

"Ready, Sherlock…" John pants after several minutes have gone by like that, sounding out of his mind with lust, and when Sherlock doesn't comply right away: "Ready! God! _Please!_ " 

He's almost shouting now, and Sherlock stops his ministrations and withdraws his hand, making John wince. 

"Okay?" he asks again, because he wants to check, give John an out if he needs one. 

"Yes," John answers and kisses him. He tastes of salt, and Sherlock hopes that this is caused by sweat rather than tears. "Want you. Now." 

They have to separate so that Sherlock can rummage in his drawer again and find a condom, and John watches him and runs his hand down his back and thigh in a tender caress. 

"I'm clean," he says.

Sherlock half-turns to look at him. 

"Me too. But trust me, you don't want to go bare the first time. It can feel… weird." 

John purses his lips. 

"I see," he replies. 

Finally Sherlock finds what he's looking for and makes to rip open the small square of plastic, but John sits up, holds out his hand, and stops him. 

"May I?" 

Sherlock misses a beat, but gets himself together again quickly. 

"Sure," he says and hands John the packet. 

"Come here," John whispers after opening it, and suddenly it really does feel like a first time, no routine whatsoever, everything new and exciting and a bit frightening, too. 

Sherlock scoots over and John rolls the condom down his length, carefully, his tongue sneaking out to wet his lips, and then he takes the bottle of lube and slicks him up with long, tight strokes that make little bolts of lightning flit through his veins. 

"You're beautiful, too," John says, looking up and sending him a crooked smile. "All of you." 

Sherlock bends forwards and sees John do the same, and they meet halfway for a long, deep kiss, John's hand still wrapped around Sherlock's cock, which twitches at the sensation. 

"Love kissing you," John murmurs softly.

Sherlock brushes his bad shoulder with his fingertips, then breaks their connection to straighten up again. 

"Get on your hands and knees for me," he says. "Or your elbows, if that's better." 

John nods, apprehension back in his eyes, and does what he is told.

"Pity I won't see your face," he mumbles as he tries to get comfortable. And then, very quietly: "Maybe next time." 

Sherlock wants to cry. 

"It's---" His voice breaks a little and he coughs to gloss over it, then starts again. "It's better like this. You'll relax more." 

"I trust you," is all he gets in reply. 

It sounds sincere. 

Sherlock, heart full to bursting, gets behind John's prone form and hugs him, kissing along his neck, his spine, his sides. There are things inside him that want to break free, words he wants to say, but he's scared of the consequences, so he tries to put his feelings into actions that John might be able to translate, and that eases at least some of the ache behind his ribs. His right hand makes its way down John's flank and between his buttocks again, where he tests the waters with a few gentle dips into his slick warmth. 

Despite the slowing down of their love-making ( _because that's what this is_ , he hopes) John is still pliant and open for him, ready for more, and when he slips two fingers into him again, the shudder and moan he gets in response tell him that he doesn't need to wait any longer. 

"I'll go slow," he says, just to say _something_ , and then positions himself. 

John nods wildly, then rests his forehead on his arms. 

"Go," he pants, breathing fast, very obviously bracing himself. "Do it." 

Sherlock replaces his fingers with the head of his cock and pushes forwards, only a little, his thumb guiding the way, and John whimpers and holds his breath, all his muscles tensing up at once. 

"No," Sherlock tells him, his free hand rubbing soothing circles into his hip. "Breathe… and bear down a bit. Come on." 

John growls, sounding frustrated, but relaxes again and takes a few deep, measured breaths. 

"Sorry," he then whispers. "I'm trying." 

Sherlock's stomach clenches with guilt. Does John think he _has_ to do this to get the comfort he needs? 

"We can stop, John. We don't have to do it like---" 

"Don't you _dare_ stop," John snaps, interrupting him. In a gentler tone, he continues: "I want it. I _need_ it. Please."

Sherlock wishes he knew what has brought about this change in him, what has become of John "Not Gay!" Watson, but knows he'll never find the courage to ask. Putting it all into words might break this spell, and he's too lucky to have this now to risk losing it by over-thinking John's motives. It's selfish, he knows, and dangerous, but he'll take what he can get, for however long it lasts. 

"I'll keep asking, though," he replies. "You must allow me that." 

John laughs a little deliriously. 

"Okay." 

Trying to push again, Sherlock can feel the difference right away, feels John follow his advice and push rather than pull away, and really, it's easier now. He's still quivering in discomfort, still breathing as if he had just been running a marathon, but he manages to take him inside, inch by slow inch, and when they're halfway there he rises onto his hands and hangs his head, moving backwards and into Sherlock's careful thrusts. 

"Alright?" Sherlock asks, clenching his teeth against the urge to go faster. 

John is _so_ tight, incredibly so, and he's glad they're using a condom now, because he knows that if he'd felt this skin on skin, he wouldn't have lasted five minutes. 

"Burns," John answers, voice strained. "But--- in a good way." 

Sherlock knows exactly what he means. 

"Let it--- wash over you," he says, leaning forwards until his palms are resting beside John's on the mattress and he can rub his face into his hair. "Don't fight it." 

"Mm-hm…" 

John hooks his little finger over Sherlock's thumb and rolls his hips again, his back sliding against Sherlock's stomach and chest, and Sherlock stops moving and lets him find his own pace to give some control over the situation back to him. 

"Yes," he whispers as he feels John's body open up further and pull him in. "Just like that." 

"Move with me," John says. "You can--- move. I'm… Oh, _God_ \---" 

He breaks off when Sherlock starts to follow his lead and joins him in a slow rhythm of back and forth, and with each thrust it becomes easier to go a little deeper, get a little closer to each other. After the fourth, fifth, sixth time it finally happens, _all the way in_ , and they groan in unison when Sherlock's loins softly slap against John's behind. 

"Oh God, you feel so good," Sherlock tells him and bites his shoulder, then licks the spot to soothe the sting. " _Fffuck_ …" 

He only ever talks dirty when in the absolute throes of passion, and he's always a little ashamed of it afterwards, but John's reaction makes him want to reconsider. 

"Mmmhhh, God, _yes_ ," John rambles and clenches down around him. "Again, _again_ … and keep--- _talking_..."

So Sherlock gives him what he wants, surprised at his sudden lack of inhibition, but enjoying himself thoroughly nonetheless. Thrusting the way John seems to like it, having memorised the rhythm he showed him earlier, he keeps his mouth close to his ear and starts speaking into it, endearments and curses (John makes it clear that he loves those a lot), and sometimes just random sounds of pleasure, consciously ordering himself not to hold back as much as he normally would. 

This night might be one of a kind, and he'll treat it as such. 

"You're so fucking _beautiful_ like this… Mmmhh, John, so hot inside, so _tight_ … Such a gorgeous arse… Oohhh, _God_ , can't forget what you taste like… Loved kissing you there, _fucking_ you with my tongue… Loved how you let go…" 

After a while it becomes a mantra he doesn't have to think about anymore, and John keeps moaning wordless encouragement and shoving back against him, harder and harder, faster and faster, until---

"Ow," John pants, his movements faltering. " _Fuck_." 

Sherlock, sober again in an instant, slows down, then stops moving altogether, and kisses the sweaty skin between John's shoulder blades. 

"Wanna stop?" he asks, and something wild and basic inside of him screams and begs for a no. He tries to ignore it. 

"No." John shakes his head, sounding breathless, but definite. "Don't stop. Just--- need to get used to it. Got a bit… overwhelmed there." 

"You're perfect," Sherlock whispers, hoping John won't take it the wrong way and feel belittled. "You're doing so well…" 

John smiles and turns his head for a sloppy, lopsided kiss, and Sherlock's heart starts to pound. If he's not careful, he's going to say something stupid really soon. 

And then what? 

When they break the kiss, John seems more relaxed, and Sherlock grinds his hips against him in a slow, teasing circle, making their bollocks slip against each other and sending shivers down his spine. John needs more pleasure to help him forget the pain, and he'll make sure he gets it, whatever it might take. 

"Touch yourself," he breathes into John’s ear, then licks into it and feels him shudder deep inside. "It makes it easier... I’ll hold you up."

He slings his left arm around Johns chest and takes their combined weight on his right one, and then he resumes his rhythm, trying not to go too hard, fighting to stay in control.

"Hnnghhh," John grunts and reaches down with one hand to tug at himself. "Oh--- _God_."

"Better?" Sherlock thrusts deeply, long, lazy strokes that make him tingle all over and want moremore _more_ , _right_ now, but he couldn’t bear it if he hurt John in any way. "Come on… Talk to me…"

"Don’t--- _stop_ ," is all he gets in reply, accompanied by a low, rumbling moan that speaks of mounting pleasure, and so he doesn’t.

He keeps going, slowly and steadily at first, then faster, a little harder, lulling himself into some sort of lustful trance until he forgets that his arm is cramping and his lungs are burning with exhaustion, and John keeps making those wonderful noises, groans and sighs and sobs that Sherlock will never, ever forget, and presses the back of his head against his shoulder in mindless ecstasy.

It’s perfect, and he never wants it to end.

_Don’t come. Not yet._

"Mmhhh! _Oh!_ " John suddenly blurts out, and Sherlock feels his body go rigid beneath him. "Oh God! Oh _God!_ " 

" _Yes_ ," he spurs him on and speeds up his pace. "Come, John. _Come_."

John cries out and Sherlock tongue-kisses the side of his neck, and then he notices that John’s hands are clutching the bedsheet again, _both of them_ , his knuckles white, his grip clenching and unclenching in an incoherent gesture of desperate frenzy.

"Oh _God!_ " he repeats, his voice cracking. "Sher---!" 

When his whole frame starts to shake uncontrollably, Sherlock digs his fingers into the muscles of his chest and just tries to not lose his mind - he wants to consciously experience this, wants to feel and see it happening to John, who's falling apart right there in his arms, and he never expected him to be like that if they ever did this together, but here he is, his John, coming all over his bed ( _untouched?!_ ), bellowing out his name in a voice he's never heard him use before, and it's beautiful, _so_ beautiful. 

Sherlock pushes his nose into the dampness gathering at the back of John's neck and inhales deeply, fills his lungs with the pure essence of the man he loves, has _always_ loved, _oh_ _God_ , and then allows himself to fall, too. 

The sensation pulses through him with such force that his knees give way and he has to let go of John to right himself, but apparently John was relying on him for support, because a second later the two of them tumble down onto the mattress together and come to rest in a tangle of limbs, Sherlock still thrusting through his orgasm, still buried deep inside John's body, which is quivering around him, and he's not at all sure anymore where he ends and John begins. 

"Fuck," John pants. "Oh _fuck_. Oh God. _Sherlock_." 

Sherlock is bad at reading between the lines, but this utterance seems to suggest that he's done something right, made it good for John, which is all that matters. 

He stops moving. 

He feels high. 

_You're amazing_ , he wants to tell him, _I loved this_ , but what comes out instead is something else. 

"I adore you." 

It's barely a murmur, since he's still out of breath himself and his lips are pressed against the soft spot of skin behind John's ear, which muffles his voice, but the echo of the words reverberates in the room anyway, slices through the sex-thick air around them, and he freezes and feels his heart sink. 

_Oh no._

John is completely silent for what feels like forever, but in fact can't be more than a few moments, and then takes a deep breath. 

"Sherlock," he rasps again, and then: "Roll over." 

Everything inside Sherlock turns cold. He's going to leave him now, after everything they've just done, and all because he loses grasp of his own brain whenever they're together and even more so when they're together like _this_ , apparently. He's so stupid. Such a fool. 

He pulls out, immediately missing John's presence around him, and rolls onto his side to give him room to get up, but the other man surprises him by moving with him and fitting himself against his front, not an inch of air in between, and kissing his shoulder, almost aggressively, seemingly lost for words. 

"John, I'm sorry--- I didn't mean it---" 

John chuckles, his tone hollow. 

"You didn't?" 

Sherlock wants to kick himself. 

"No, I--- Of course I did--- I _do_. But I shouldn't have…" he rambles. 

"Sshhh," John says, bumping his forehead against his collarbone. "Stop. Please." 

Sherlock is at a complete loss. What does this mean? What is John trying to say? 

John starts to cry. 

It begins as a slow, shuddering wave that goes through him from head to toe, but intensifies quickly, and Sherlock feels hot tears trickle into the space between them and carefully puts his arms around him to comfort him somehow, even if he has no idea what has set all this in motion - John seems so small right now, and yet so fierce, so dangerously fragile, as if he might explode at the slightest touch. 

"I'm sorry, John," he repeats, not really sure what he's apologising for but feeling like he needs to nonetheless. 

"You!" John presses out, shaking his head. "You--- have _no_ reason to be--- _sorry_ …" 

He trails off and moans pitifully. Sherlock wants to help him, but he doesn't understand what's going on, and then John suddenly sobs, loudly, sounding so desperate that Sherlock is scared Mrs Hudson will hear and come upstairs and find them here, like this, but he can't do anything but hold him, cradle his head against his chest, and let him cry. 

They're naked and sticky and cold and he's still wearing the condom, which feels bizarre and out of place in this terrible, confusing situation that he never saw coming, genius that he is, but he can't let go of John now. Something is poisoning him from the inside, and Sherlock wants to make it right. 

"If I find out you--- you take it _up the arse_ \--- I'll--- I'll _kill_ you…" John stammers, and Sherlock has no idea what he is on about, but when he continues to speak, it dawns on him. _Of course._ "That's what _he_ used to--- say… after Harry left…" 

His voice breaks again and he hiccoughs lowly before another sob shakes his shoulders and makes Sherlock's throat hurt just from listening to it. 

"So much time--- wasted! _Wasted!_ " John is half shouting now, his breath laboured and ragged against Sherlock's skin. "Wanted this--- _you_ \--- for _so_ long… Oh _God_ …" 

Sherlock holds him a bit tighter. 

"John… It's not your fault." 

John lets out a long whine that makes the hair at the back of Sherlock's neck stand on end. John is breaking apart, and there is nothing he can do to prevent it. He feels helpless and hates himself for his inability to deal with this the way he feels he should. 

"I'm--- _happy_ that my father is dead!" John says shrilly. "I've just slept with a man whose affection I don't deserve… because I _hurt_ him, hurt _you_ , Sherlock, so often… So what kind of son am I? What kind of _friend?_ " 

Shutting out the memories this evokes (he's buried them in the farthest corner of his mind palace), Sherlock swallows and runs his hand through John's hair, again and again, and he's not even sure who that's supposed to calm down - John or himself. 

"You're hurting. You've been hurting for a long time. It's not your fault." 

That's true, and reasonable, he tells himself. John was abused. Why shouldn't he turn into an abuser himself as a result of that? 

"It _is_ ," John retorts forcefully. "I'm an adult now. Should make my own decisions." 

His tears have dried up, it seems. He sounds tired and empty now. Sherlock doesn't know what's worse. 

"You've had it beaten into you," he insists. "Who'd blame you for submitting to it?" 

And just like that, John gets angry. 

"Sherlock, I--- I adore you too! Don't you see? And yet, I feel guilty for doing what we just did - I feel _dirty_ , and I hate myself for it!" 

Sherlock flinches at his tone, but doesn't let him go. 

"John---" 

"Shut up! I despise myself for--- for liking it so much, for _coming_ like that--- _God!_ How can I ever be what you need? How could I _use_ you like that?" 

No. _No._

John is ending this here, now, and he thought he could take it, but he can't. 

He _can't_. 

"John, don't. Please stop. I--- Maybe I shouldn't have let you go through with it. You weren't yourself. Maybe---" 

John's fingers are in the hair at the back of his head now, and he's pulling until it hurts. 

"No! I was myself! I _am!_ Sherlock! _I love you!_ " 

I love you. 

I

Love

You. 

Sherlock wants to scream in agony, wants to surrender and break down, cry, lose himself in it, because it's too much to handle and he can't be strong anymore. 

But he doesn't. 

Instead, he asks: "Where's Rosie?" 

John's grip on his hair loosens, becomes gentle, exhausted. 

"I--- At Molly's. Why?"

Sherlock ignores the question. 

"For the night?" 

John nods. 

"Yeah." 

One night. This night. He has this night.

"Good. Then stop talking now… It's okay. It will be okay, John." 

"Sherlock…" 

He pulls the duvet over from where it's bunching up behind John's back and covers the two of them with it. 

"Sshhh. Let's go to sleep." 

John's head fits perfectly into the crook between his neck and shoulder. 

"I'm sorry, Sherlock."

The lamp is still burning. The condom has slipped off his limp cock and is now dripping its contents all over his thigh. He doesn't care. 

"I know. It's alright."

John shivers in his arms as his skin warms up. 

"I do love you." 

Shyly. Quietly. 

Like a tender goodbye. 

"I love you too, John." 

And he knows he always will. 

No matter what tomorrow will bring. 

  
  
The end. 


End file.
